Texas Rich

by Fern Michaels

  It was Billie who insisted, despite Seth’s objection, that Moss retire early. Her husband’s face was ashen when he climbed the stairs to their rooms. He didn’t object when Billie helped him undress, and he was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow.

  Billie was satisfied just to have Moss here, in their bed. As long as he was near, within touching distance, she could be happy.

  There would be other days, other nights. Clearly, her indestructible husband had overdone it today. It was the strain of coming home, dealing with the pain, playing with the girls— and of being torn between his loyalties to his wife and to his father. But she would always remember this afternoon when her husband and their babies had shared wonderful hours together. If a son had been there, would it have been different?

  She leaned over and brushed her lips across his brow. Quietly she undressed and climbed into bed beside him. How good it felt—and how lonely and empty her bed had been without him all these months.

  It worried her that Moss was so eager to get himself back into the action. If only, just once, Moss would want her more than he wanted anything else. Why couldn’t she and the girls be enough? As she turned toward him and slipped her arm around his waist to nestle close, she knew her decision was a good one. If his wife and daughters weren’t quite enough, a son would be. A son.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The days in San Diego passed swiftly and smoothly. They were busy—Billie saw to that. Overnight, she had seemed to take charge. Family breakfast on the terrace included the girls. Then some time for play in the nursery, with Billie watching from the sidelines. After that, an hour or so for Moss to read the papers and maybe for a casual talk over a second cup of coffee. Lunch was on the terrace, too, and then the girls went down for their naps and Moss left for his physical therapy session at the naval hospital. When he came home from the hospital he was always exhausted and she made sure he had at least an hour of rest. Billie generously shared Moss with Seth at dinner and for an hour afterward. Then he was hers. If Seth didn’t like the arrangements, he kept his opinions to himself.

  One warm evening, as a gentle breeze stirred the lace curtains at the French doors and Billie and Moss lay quietly together listening to soft music on the radio, Billie said, “I want another baby, Moss.”

  She felt him tense. “Just like that? No. No more. Not now.”

  “Just like that,” Billie repeated. She traced a long, delicate line down his chest and stopped just short of the rough patch of hair at the base of his stomach. “Look at me, Moss. Do I look sick? I’m young; I’m healthy. I take care of myself. And I’ll do what the doctors say—I always do. Susan arrived safely and almost exactly on time. This baby will, too.”

  “You make it sound like it’s already a fact.” Moss pretended to glower. He was a man after all, and flattered that this beautiful young woman wanted to bear him yet another child.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, Billie, it isn’t. I don’t want you taking chances. You’ve got to be strong for the two children we already have. When the war is over and I’m here with you, that’s the time to think of another child. Unless, of course, you’ve got your doubts about my coming out of this one in one piece.” His gaze was sharp, keen, piercing Billie.

  “I don’t think that at all. I know nothing will happen to you. That’s another reason—I want to have a son for you when you return. Please, Moss. Darling?”

  “Billie, I never willingly refuse you anything, but I think we should wait. The girls are wonderful, they’re beautiful and charming, and they are more than I ever imagined daughters could be. I don’t need a son.”

  Lie. Lie through your teeth, Coleman. Make it sound like the truth. Need. Want. There was a difference. He had said he didn’t need a son. Change it, Coleman, before it’s too late.

  “I don’t want a son right now, Billie,” he said. “I’m content with Maggie and Susy.”

  Diversion. That’s how some battles were won. “Billie, have you written Thad lately?”

  It took Billie a moment to adjust to the sudden change in the conversation. “No, I haven’t. Do you want me to write to him?”

  “I think it might be a good idea. He only gets mail from his mother. He likes you, Billie, and I know he’d appreciate it. You could give him all the lowdown about how the girls are growing. When I tell it, it sounds like bragging.”

  Well, if he could do an about-face in the conversation, so could she. “Lieutenant, how would you like me to make love to you, Billie Coleman style?” The finger that traced the length of his torso insidiously invaded private property.

  “Is there a difference from the Moss Coleman style?” he asked, shifting to present himself to her hands and lips.

  “Considerable . . . however, I’m not certain you’re up to it,” Billie teased as she nibbled his ear.

  “I’m up to it and you know it!” He seized her hand and pressed it against him.

  “Darned if you aren’t!” She laughed, a soft, womanly sound, deep and husky with the knowledge of the pleasure to come. It was a sound that ripened his interest, that made him ache to caress her body and to lose himself in her. “If you promise me you won’t go away, I’ll be right back.”

  “In this condition? Where would I go? Billie, don’t forget to—”

  “Use the diaphragm,” she finished for him. After Moss had been released from the naval hospital, he’d talked intimately with her about taking measures to prevent another pregnancy and made her promise to see a doctor in San Diego. He’d been so concerned, so sincere, that she could not deny him. She would use the diaphragm tonight, but she would also remove it whenever she felt like, even too early. She didn’t think of herself as devious; she was just giving the odds a little boost. If it was meant to be, she would conceive another child. Her conscience didn’t prick her, but her image in the bathroom mirror was bitter.

  When Billie slipped beneath the silken sheets against Moss’s warm, vital body, her face was warm and glowing. “Are you ready, Lieutenant Coleman?”

  “Mrs. Coleman, when I see you like this, I’m always ready.” The timbre of his voice sent a tingling ripple down her spine.

  “No more talking, Lieutenant. I want you to just lie there. You’re not to do a thing, understand?”

  “Aye-aye, ma’am.” His hands reached for the ashen fall of silky hair that fell about her face. He held it to one side and found her mouth with his own.

  Billie let all thoughts evaporate. She was a woman, receptive only to loving sensations—the way her thighs felt between his hard, muscular ones; the way the tips of her breasts brushed against his furred chest. Her fingers found the planes and hollows of his body, knowing them more intimately than she knew her own. And as she traced moist patterns with her lips from the base of his throat to the flatness of his belly, she was attuned to his intake of breath, the little gasp of desire that quickened her pulses with a sense of her female power. She seduced him with her hands, her lips, the motions of her body upon him. And when she straddled him and took him into herself, there was victory in her cries of pleasure.

  Billie lived in a dream world, surrounded by her children and her husband. It was an idyll, something she’d craved and needed and had never had. Even Seth smiled at her these days, and Agnes was complimentary about everything Billie did. Billie’s sense of security grew, and she looked forward to Christmas. This year there would be two perfect little girls under the Christmas tree and Moss would be there, with that look of love and admiration in his eyes.

  On the afternoon of December 31 Moss came bounding into the house on La Cienega Boulevard. His face was beaming with excitement. His summer-blue eyes twinkled.

  “Look!” he told Billie, opening his jacket. She saw that the last of the bandages and the brace had been removed. “Good as new, fit as a fiddle. I leave to rejoin my squadron on the fifth!”

  Before she could say a word, Moss took her into his arms and buried his lips in her smoke-blond hair. “Be happy
for me, Billie. It’s what I want. What I need.”

  And what of her needs? she thought. What of them? And the children? She was beginning to understand that if she forced Moss to make a choice, he wouldn’t choose her.

  “I’m going to tell Pap. Better batten down the hatches. He’s not going to like this.” He left her as quickly as he’d embraced her and hurried away to face Seth.

  Agnes found Billie in the hallway on the bottom step of the stairs, elbows on knees, head in hands. “Billie? What’s wrong?”

  “Moss. He’s going back to his squadron. He’s telling Seth now.”

  Billie heard the hiss of her indrawn breath. “And what about you, Billie?” she asked. “What about us? All of us, including the children?” There was a desperate edge to Agnes’s voice that she didn’t try to disguise. Her long, brightly painted fingers played with her rope of pearls. The taffeta slip beneath her light woolen suit rustled pleasantly as she sat beside her daughter. “Do you remember our little talk? And do your remember how Seth treated Amelia, his own flesh and blood? . . .”

  “That’s enough, Mother! I don’t want to hear any more. And as for our little talk, I’m doing the best I can. And this time it’s for me, Mother, for me! Because I want a son. Everyone else be damned!”

  Billie stood, leaving Agnes sitting alone on the stairs, and went into the living room. When she returned she carried a decanter of cognac and two snifters. Back straight, expression solemn, she climbed the stairs without a glance or a word to her watchful mother.

  Outside her bedroom door, Billie shook back her hair and lifted the corners of her mouth into a smile, then burst into the room. “Hi, darling. I battened down the hatches but I didn’t hear a sound. How’s your father taking the news?”

  “How else?” Moss said bitterly. “He’s never understood what was important to me. He’s furious and refuses to go out with us tonight. What’ve you got there?”

  “Oh, I thought you needed someone to celebrate with. And I couldn’t think of anyone better than myself. I want you to be happy, darling, and I’m happy for you.”

  Moss’s expression softened. “You’re quite a woman, Mrs. Coleman. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “Not in those words. I didn’t bring any ice—do you need ice?”

  Moss laughed. “And ruin twenty-year-old cognac? C’mon, let’s pour us a drink and celebrate a new year.” He never noticed Billie locking the door behind her.

  Billie lay beside Moss, her head fuzzy from the cognac, and felt his hands trail lazily over her body. “My wife, my beautiful wife,” he was murmuring against her ear as his fingers worked the front buttons of her blouse. He’d drunk too much, taken two glasses to one of hers, and she knew that his judgment had evaporated in his excitement over being allowed to rejoin his squadron. It was exactly as she wanted it. Men had their war machines for battle; women had their own bodies. Hard steel or soft flesh, strength or passion. In the end it was the same, and always for the same selfish reasons.

  Slowly, almost lazily, they undressed each other, lips kissing and moistening newly bared skin. It was late afternoon and dusky shadows hovered outside the lace-covered windows. Rosy light invaded the room, warming the color of their bodies and splashing intriguing designs on the walls and bedclothes. Billie curled toward him, one hand exploring his rock-hard chest, one leg resting lightly against his. Moss hovered over her, his liquor-scented breath pleasantly fanning her cheek. One bold finger charted her face, stroking her golden brow, following the slender turn of her nose, the downy prominence of her cheekbone and the yielding softness of her rosy mouth. He nibbled her lower lip, smiling when her mouth trembled. Her hazel eyes were sultry and alive, open to welcome him into their silvery depths.

  He caressed her tenderly, tracing the tender hollow of her shoulder, the globes of her firm, coral-crested breasts. The nipples hardened and rose beneath his palms. His hands moved lower, to her narrow waist, the round curve of her hip, the soft flesh of her belly, the enticing golden down, and the warm valley.

  Her eyes closed then, and she moved against his fingers, whispering in delighted encouragement when his mouth followed where his hands had been, finding her satiny contours. It was her murmur of delight that heightened his passion and left him trembling. The tide of his emotions was sweeping him into a sea of sensation. He was exhilarated by the cognac, by the power of bringing this woman such pleasure, and by the knowledge that he would soon be returning to his squadron. All of life was his and it pounded through his veins in a rhythmic rush that made all things sweeter. Life. Love. Passion.

  He covered her body with his own, his mouth finding hers as he pressed into her and felt himself enveloped in warm, pulsing flesh that welcomed him.

  Billie offered her mouth to his, tasting herself mingled with the cognac. Deeper and deeper he penetrated, slowly, languorously, until she completely surrounded him, taking him inside her, tasting, kissing, until there was no sensation beyond him. Moss, only Moss, within her, surrounding her, becoming her. Moss, filling her life, touching her heart, becoming her world and her universe. She did not exist outside of this moment. She needed, she wanted, she took. And gave. What had begun as a calculation was ending as a glorious gift, shared between them.

  They fit each other. Her rhythms perfectly matched his own, her flesh and bones supported him, melted into him, comfortable, yielding in ever-deepening, ever-quickening undulations. Flesh swallowed flesh and became one, again and again, deeper and deeper, caressing with each stroke, possessing with rippling waves until there was nothing except those two parts of themselves that merged and joined and bonded, lifting them together in a path to the sun.

  The Texas Ranger soared into the endless sky, away from Moss’s squadron and back to the Big E. Something had jimmied in his instrument panel and his Wildcat was having difficulty maintaining altitude. The mechanics would have the Ranger right in no time. Moss banked to port and read his compass heading, exhilarated by the unhampered freedom of flight, by the satisfaction of a job well done. In late January, he’d been involved in strikes on Formosa and Okinawa. February had seen the first air strikes on Tokyo, and now it was March and the Big E and her men and machines were supporting the occupation of Iwo Jima.

  There was a vibration in the fuselage, a shudder beneath his feet. He was steadily losing altitude! He attempted to make voice contact with his squadron, but the frequencies in his headset seemed jammed. Again he tried. Nothing.

  Swallowing panic, Moss pulled back on the stick, feeling the Ranger attempt a response yet continue on her downward course. Her engine spit, then coughed. Emergency procedure drilled through his brain, but he wouldn’t admit he needed to use it. Like death, it had always seemed only a remote possibility. The Ranger was spiraling down, about to roll into a tailspin. Moss tried to regain mastery of the fighter plane, all the while attempting to make radio contact with either the Enterprise or his squadron. The panel lights dimmed and then failed altogether. The prop was slowing before his eyes. If the Ranger went into a tailspin, a safe bailout would be impossible. The prop was making lazy windmills. Desperately he worked the rubber pedals, feeling them stiff, unresponsive. Useless. He’d heard an old flight chief talk about setting a Wildcat down on her ailerons and elevator, but the Ranger had gone dead in the air and was plunging from seven thousand feet to the hungry sea below.

  Never bail out below a thousand feet! It was a precaution he reiterated several times a day in training. Yet he knew he must be below that when in a single explosive motion he hurled back the canopy, climbed to his feet, jammed the stick full forward, and pulled the ripcord of his chute. The dead Ranger dropped from under him; the parachute fluttered and opened and snatched him upward.

  The sea felt like a concrete wall when he hit, but he managed to release the snap hooks that held his chute. The sea engulfed him and he went deep into its blackness. But when he struggled upward and broke the surface, he was free of the entangling silk.

  He took huge gulps of ai
r and pulled the toggles on his Mae West. One side filled at once; the other hung limp. Treading water, Moss laboriously blew up the lifesaving jacket. It was then that he noticed blood ribboning into the water beneath him. He must have torn his leg when the chute yanked him from the cockpit. Blood drew sharks, which were numerous in these waters. He must get himself out of the sea!

  Reaching around, he zipped the pararaft out of its envelope and pulled the inflation toggle. It responded, whuffing into shape. Encumbered by the Mae West, he struggled aboard, lifting his torn leg into the raft. He could feel panic closing in on him, but he recognized it for what it was and held himself in rigid control.

  Bobbing along on the waves with nauseating regularity, Moss watched the sky and waited. The long night descended. He prayed for morning and waited.

  When the sun finally broke the horizon it was a hot, angry, crimson ball that rouged the cumulus puffs. His salt-caked face and the exposed skin at wrists and ankles began to burn. And still he watched the sky. He concentrated on guarding against despair.

  He checked his watch and gratefully found it still working. He noted the time. If he fell asleep, it would seem only minutes but in reality it would be hours. He took a position fix on the sun. The wind seemed constant and he was drifting in a northwesterly direction, away from the last-known position of the Enterprise. Moss’s equipment consisted of a sturdy bladed knife sewn into a sheath on the leg of his flight suit and a .45-caliber automatic pistol in a holster on the web belt around his waist. He worried that the pistol would be useless, but when he test-fired it the satisfying recoil sprang up his arm to the elbow. At least he wasn’t completely defenseless.

  He was parched and ravenously hungry. Before shielding his face from the sun by hunkering down into the protective shadow of his life vest, he checked his leg wound. A satisfactory clot of blood had created a scab. At least he wouldn’t bleed to death.